Beginnings of a Misunderstood Legend
by PhoenixPhlame
Summary: L, the World Famous Detective. Everyone knows and respects the title, but strangers in the streets label him a freak. Even the task force don't understand him. The closest to understanding is Watari, but what could have made L, L?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

In a shabby kitchen in a rundown flat, in an unimportant town somewhere in southern England, there sat a woman in her early twenties. In front of her there was a cup of lukewarm tea, and in her shaking hand there was a cigarette that was in desperate need of flicking, but the woman didn't seem to notice. Even as the column of ash lost its battle with both gravity and her tremors she took no notice and stared blankly out of the window. Muffled crying from an infant could be heard from somewhere else in the flat, but the only sign to show that the woman had heard the sound was a slight grimace, her eyes never straying from the road outside.

An hour passed, then two... the ashtray steadily filling with cigarette ends, the table spotted with ash, the air a blue haze, the crying reduced to occasional moans and whimpers, and not once did the woman move. Not once did her eyes leave the road.

Thirty minutes later and a red Astra pulled up outside, and only then did the woman move, seeming to come out of her trance as she jumped up and moved to the door, opening it ready for the man who was coming up the stairs. The man looked up at her almost hopefully, only for his expression to become disappointed as he saw the almost insane glint that had taken residence in his wife's eyes since the birth of their child. The woman saw none of this however, and just gave him a vacant smile as she held the door, the first expression she had worn on her face since he'd left that morning for work, not that the man knew this.

"Maria! It is good to see you, today has been rather trying, but I am glad to be home!" He smiled, and held up a plastic bag for the woman to see. "I took the liberty of guessing that you wouldn't feel up to making dinner tonight, so I brought us some food from that lovely Chinese takeaway from a few streets over, I hope you didn't have anything special planned!" His voice was too animated, as if speaking to a sad child. The woman shook her head with a blank smile, and moved to find some plates and utensils.

The man took the time to observe the woman as her back was turned, and he didn't like what he was seeing. Her thick black hair lay in tangles down her back, and he doubted it had seen a brush since he last dragged one through it for her. Her clothes hung from her thin frame, and he knew she was getting thinner every week that passed. She'd been wearing the same outfit for four days now, and he could tell by his nose that she hadn't bathed in a while. Her hands shook as she took plates from the cupboard. It had been seven months since their son was born, and the man was worried that if she didn't snap out of it soon, he would have to give up his job, which was the only thing keeping them from the streets. It didn't pay much, and they barely scraped by, but it was all they had.

Right on cue, just like every other day for the last three months when he came home, he heard his favourite sound in the world.

"Dadee!"

Eagerly the man opened the previously closed door, a big smile on his face, which quickly turned to a worried frown as yet again the wall of smell nearly destroyed his olfactory senses. She was definitely getting worse. In two large strides he was beside the cot, looking down on his son sadly.

"I'm sorry little man. Daddy had to go to work, but I'm home now. Your mother hasn't been well lately has she? I don't know what we're going to do. Enough sad things, let's get you cleaned up, and we'll see about some food!"

"Foo!" replied the child, who was standing holding on to the bars of his cot.

"Clever boy, FooD!" he replied with a smile, emphasising the D sound. He watched as his son looked at his own hands holding on, then back up at him as if unsure.

"Do you have something to show me?"

"Ess!" The small boy replied, with a big wet grin. Slowly, looking between his hands and his father, the boy let go of the bars, wobbling slightly, and reached out to be picked up.

"Well done!" The man watched with pride and a touch of amazement as yet again his boy surprised him with what he had learned to do. "Did your Mummy help you?" He already knew the answer to this but every day he hoped it would be a different answer, anything to show that his Marie would come back, and they would be happy, just the three of them, their perfect family.

"Nuh."

"Don't worry my boy, Mummy will be happy one day, and all will be well! Now, let's get you cleaned up."

Ten minutes later, and the man had done his best to treat the rash on his child's bottom from being left in the same nappy since that morning. It was the same every day now, and the child never cried about it anymore, and it saddened the man to think of his child becoming used to something that looked so painful, but there was no choice, he needed to work, and he could only hope that his Marie would snap out of it soon. He knew she didn't feed him properly, or change him, but he at least thought she may spend time with him. Thinking through everything, the man forced himself to analyse the situation as he changed the cot sheets, which were soaked. The vacant smiles that looked so false. The ash all over the table, the ashtray half full when it had been emptied by him that morning. Things that he didn't want to notice, conclusions he didn't want to reach. The wall of smell that had hit him, indicating that the door hadn't been opened for a long time. It could have been caused by a long afternoon nap, but the more disturbing reason that he almost never acknowledged was that his wife was neglecting their son.

He had heard of women being rather depressed after the birth of a child and had waited in the hopes of it just being a phase, but seven months... and she hadn't even named him. The argument itself had all but died out after month three.

Before their son was born they had both been so excited, as Marie's belly had kept swelling, and they had laid out under the stars for many a night, laughing as they discussed their unborn child, and the things they would do together as a family. Marie had been convinced that the baby would be a girl, and had immediately settled on a girl's name, 'Elle', for her twin sister who had died many years before. He had suggested something along the same lines for a boy, 'Elliot' but as soon as it crossed his lips, he knew it wasn't right. Not with their surname. They had laughed as they shook their heads, with Marie stating that since she was the mother, she just knew it was going to be a little girl, and that they wouldn't need a boy's name.

Once labour had started, Marie had barely said a word. He could still hear her screams if he closed his eyes and thought about it, he remembered how helpless he had felt as the midwives never seemed to notice that his wife was in agony, smiling as they told her to breath properly, and that this was all normal. Hour after hour of screaming as he became more and more panicked watching her eyes as they grew dimmer, the bright spark fading. Marie still not saying a word, refusing all medication with frantic shaking of her head, her hair soaked with sweat and yet still a wild mess.

The look on her face when she'd realised she'd had a boy.

The look when it had dawned on her superstitious mind that she'd given birth on Halloween.

The way she looked down at the baby, and held him away as she stared at his dark grey eyes, almost black in the shadows. She had placed him down shortly afterwards, only picking him up when the nurses remarked that he was crying because he needed feeding.

When it came to writing a name on the birth certificate, she had been silent. He had tried to explain to the registrar, to his great mortification, that they hadn't decided for sure yet, and that they had only thought of the girl's name, Elle. Surprisingly enough, the registrar only smiled kindly, told us not to worry and that many parents had trouble deciding what to name their child. She suggested that we think of what initials our child should have, and Marie just nodded beside him as he suggested their child's name should start with an 'L' since it sounded like 'Elle'. The registrar told us we had up to a year to find the perfect name.

That's what she wrote, and it hadn't changed. The man had had an argument with his wife shortly afterwards, refusing to decide a name on his own. It was a rather one sided argument considering that Marie refused to speak a word. So, until the man's wife came to her senses, the child would be known as L Lawliet.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: This story is for fun, not for profit. I own nothing that didn't come from my own mind.

**Chapter 2**

It was his second birthday today. He decided it was a good day. After all, now he had a proper bed, lots of different sized blocks, a police car and best of all – books. From what he'd heard, today was a special day because it had been two years since he was born, and he figured out that 'was born' is the same as 'first came into the world' because his Daddy said both, and this was the only thing that made sense.

Now, maybe his new picture book could help him understand what a year is. His Daddy looks in books to find things.

L's mother was slowly getting better, she still didn't spend much time with her son but she was gradually talking more and more, and she seemed to look at him properly now instead of looking straight through him. L's father was secure in his job and spent half of his evenings with L in his room, and the other half in the front room after L was asleep. Being the man that he was, L's father had taken it upon himself to force Marie into recognising her surroundings on the weekends and after over a year of effort, and many instances where he'd had to restrain himself from just _shaking_ the woman out of pure frustration, he felt that their dreams were within reach. He wasn't asking for much. A good solid house that's actually theirs, a car that doesn't eat money, one holiday per year maybe...

Most of all he just wanted his family to be happy.

L knew the routine better than his parents did. He woke up when his Daddy's alarm sounded, and lay quietly in his bed until he heard the toilet flush. That meant his Daddy was finished in the bathroom, and his hands would be free to make breakfast. Only then would he leave the room, to go and sit quietly on his chair at the table. His mother would finish in the bathroom just as he took his last bite of breakfast, and then it was his turn. After he was finished - and had cleaned the blob of toothpaste that _always_ fell on the floor, no matter what he did – he would dress himself in a pair of his usual jeans and a t-shirt of some colour or other. It depended on what kind of day he felt it would be. By the time he was dressed his Daddy would have left for work, leaving his mother sitting at the table, cigarette in hand and tea in cup.

L spent his days either copying letters and numbers he saw onto rolls of lining paper, or looking at people's faces in magazines. Before his new toys arrived, the only other option was to stare at his silent mother, watching for every twitch of her face, wondering what it meant, thinking maybe she didn't talk like his Daddy because she used her face instead. Perhaps it was part of her sickness. This theory was shot down when L twitched his face back at her one day, and she gave him a blank stare and turned back to the window. L wasn't very sad about this. If she said something to him, he wouldn't know what to say back anyway. Not like with his Daddy. The day would stay very much the same, with neither caring for the other's presence. Both of them were waiting for the same person to come home.

When the shadows lengthened as the day wore on, L would wait for the twitch in his mother's eye that meant she had seen a red car. If it was Daddy's car, she would say 'he's home' to herself and start making tea. If it wasn't Daddy's car she would sigh softly, light her cigarette without looking, and take a slow drag on it.

L wondered if the clouds she blew out were like the ones in the sky. If they were, he never wanted to go outside. It must be terrible out there.

Daddy would come home, L would go to his room and wait while Daddy drank one cup of tea, and then his favourite part of the day would begin.

Daddy would bring either a cake or a pastry of some kind that he got from the cafe at work, and L would sit and listen as he ate. There were stories about numbers, shapes, people, anything. It didn't matter. L listened to it all. At these special times, the little boy would sit on the floor, crouched over his plate, and he would be so absorbed in his father's words that he would forget how he was sitting, and even to blink. He never forgot his cake though.

After that, there was dinner, then bath, then bed. Then it started again when he woke up.

It would be almost another year before the letters that L wrote started forming words, and from there, sentences. It was around this time that L realised what time was, on his third birthday in fact. After all, he remembered his second birthday, and if it was his third birthday now, then it had been one year, which is 365 days. Days were fascinating to L, he knew that there were 7 in a week, and that his Daddy worked for five days, then stayed at home for two days, then worked for five days again. He wrote the days on his paper.

'5 5 5 5 5 2 2 5 5 5 5 5 2 2 5 5 5 5 5 2 2 = 3 weeks'

L's father had gotten a surprise that night when he'd seen that. He managed to hide his shock however and simply taught L the days of the week, writing them down for him. From there, every evening L's father would read through what L had been doing that day, helping him with spelling and counting, and even starting to teach him Japanese, which he was fluent in due to his mother being Japanese.

Over the next year, L would come to spend more time in the front room, where there was more space for his rolls of lining paper. By the time L was four, Marie was splitting her time, half by the window, and the other half watching L quietly. L took as much notice of her as she used to of him, and happily ignored her in favour of completing whatever puzzle or question had been left for him on his paper by his father that morning, armed with two dictionaries he had requested for his birthday, one English and one Japanese. There was a third, a French dictionary, and L was looking forward to his father teaching him this language too.

By the time L was five years old he had a thorough grounding in written and spoken English, Japanese, and French, and rolls of used lining paper were stored anywhere and everywhere, filled with L's writing. L had written about everything from spiders to supernovae to volcanic eruptions, and had even drawn sketches here and there, mostly of the things he found intriguing. Somewhere on one roll L had written out a recipe for a strawberry cheesecake he had seen someone make on the television, along with coloured drawings from various angles of the finished product, storing it in his memory since it looked tastier than anything he'd ever had before. He knew exactly which roll this was since he had had the bright idea of putting numbers on his rolls a few months ago, and when he was old enough to cook he swore that strawberry cheesecake would be the first thing he made. L's mother spoke to him now, not very often, but L didn't mind. He only had eyes and ears for his father, who always had something new for him to learn, or something new and interesting for him to think about. L's obsession at this stage in his life (apart from strawberry cheesecake) was something that his father had introduced to him recently, and it had led to rolls of paper being filled faster than ever before.

Probabilities. L found that he could no longer fall asleep as easily after this discovery, and instead would sit in the dark, in a crouch that had long since become habit, forgetting to blink as his mind whirred through possibility after possibility, either staying up all night, or falling into an exhausted doze. On the occasions where his mind would sleep, he would either wake up still in his crouch, or he would wake up on his front, with his knees tucked under his chest, having fallen forwards during the night. This had meant sitting in the middle of the bed, facing the pillows, just in case. It had all started when his father had told one of his stories.

"_L, I want you to think on something for me. Remember what I told you about the world outside?"_

"_I remember."_

"_Everyone is part of a bigger picture, we are all puzzle pieces, surrounded by other puzzle pieces, all trying to find our way, and all connecting with each other."_

_L said nothing, he sat quietly waiting for his father to continue._

"_Well, I recently spoke to a very lucky puzzle piece." There was a pause as the older man read through some of what L had written. L hadn't moved._

"_There is a woman where I work, let's just call her Jane. Now, let us imagine that she wakes up in the morning, and carries out her normal routine, whatever that may be. It doesn't really matter for the purposes of this story. She leaves her house taking her handbag with her, and walks to the subway station nearest her house, just as she does every day. Now, Jane reaches the platform and realises that she is only just in time to catch her train."_

_L listened intently, something in his father's tone telling him that he would be thinking about this story for a long time. _

"_This is where the story gets interesting. Now, imagine that we can pause Jane in the middle of the platform," his father said, miming pressing a button on a television remote. "From then on, to keep it simple, let's say two possibilities exist."_

_L was intrigued to say the least. Tilting his head slightly to focus better on his father, and nibbling absently on a thumb that had made its way to his mouth, the five year old waited._

"_In possibility number one, Jane makes it on to her train just as the doors close. Unfortunately due to a fault the train derails, and Jane is seriously injured. She spends a long time in hospital recovering and is left with many scars." _

_L's father glances towards the small boy and smiles inwardly at the wide eyed stare, although none of this shows on his face._

"_In possibility number two, the strap of Jane's bag gives way and snaps as soon as we release the pause button, causing her to miss the train by seconds in her scramble to retrieve her bag from the ground, thereby saving her from harm."_

_L's eyes are wide as his father finishes speaking, and he stares blankly at the wall as his mind tries to sort his thoughts into some kind of logical order. There were so many hidden messages for such a short story. First though..._

"_Which one actually happened?"_

_At this quiet question, L's father sat up straight from where he'd resumed leaning over to read L's work, and looked at L._

"_I think you already know what happened," he replied, letting a slight smile cross his features._

"_So do I, but I thought it would be a good idea to make sure," the boy mumbled, thumb still slightly touching his bottom lip as he spoke._

"_Would you tell me what you are thinking? I will tell you if you are right."_

"_Yes."_

_Both sat in silence as L ordered his thoughts. Already his mind was applying what he'd learned from the short story and slotting his many conclusions into what he thought he had known about the world. Being used to this by now, L's father showed no irritation and sat quietly, knowing that L would speak when he was ready._

"_It is plain to see from the beginning that Jane would be lucky somehow. You said that she was a 'very lucky puzzle piece'. It wasn't hard to know that it was going to be the second possibility as soon as you mentioned injury in the first." The thumb had not moved, and unless one was looking closely, the child did not appear to have spoken. The words themselves sounded flat and emotionless, L's mind being so busy with his new information that he barely heard himself speak, trusting his mouth to form the words he needed as he thought on the more interesting aspects of the story._

_A truly mischievous grin appeared on the elder's face, and it was duly noted by the younger, who had the distinct feeling that something was amiss._

"_Ah, my clever one, what of the possibility that due to her injuries, Jane would be classed as _lucky _to be alive?"_

"_That... would be a possibility, yes. However since it is you telling the story, and you have not been late home from work recently, I am guessing you must have spoken to Jane at work. The accident I think you are speaking of was reported on the news two weeks ago, and I am fairly certain that if Jane was severely injured, she would either still be in hospital or she would be recovering at home. Plus the simple fact that I know you prefer to tell me happier stories."_

"_You've got me there L, correct on all points. I'm starting to think that soon nothing will get past you." This was said with a wistful smile and a touch of worry. "You'll outgrow my stories soon enough, wont you?"_

"_If I ever do, I think it would be too soon. Your stories teach me a lot of things that I will need to know." Sensing his father's slight worry, he continued, not liking the feeling in his chest at seeing that concern there. Distraction always worked, even if it always saddened him at the lack of challenge in doing so. "I learned a lot of things from your story."_

"_Like what?" and just like that, the worry was gone, replaced by curiosity. Success._

"_Well, were it not for the accident, possibility number one would indeed be the lucky one, and possibility number two would be the unlucky. However, accident or no accident, at the time Jane would be annoyed by the strap on her bag breaking, and consequently missing her train. It is most likely that she would blame her bag rather than admit that she was running slightly behind schedule. I am also guessing that as soon as Jane realised there had been an accident, and that it was the train she would have been on, she then decided that it was her bag that saved her life. Her bag would have gone from being a nuisance to being her saviour."_

"_She actually mended the strap and still uses the same bag. She had it with her when she was telling me the story. Apparently it's her 'good luck' bag now," the man chuckled at the memory._

"_One of Mother's magazines printed a story last week that I think you and Jane would be interested in."_

"_Is that so?" _

"_The story is of a man who was in a similar situation to Jane. He'd later told his wife who then wrote to the magazine, talking of guardian angels. Specifically she said that she thought her dead mother was watching over her loved ones. I don't believe that is true."_

_L's father sat in silence, knowing that the boy would continue when he was ready._

"_The man arrived at the same platform at the same time as the Jane from your story, but a few seconds before he reached the doors he was distracted by a noise behind him. He stopped, and when he turned to look he noticed that a woman had dropped her bag. After deciding to go and help the woman to collect her scattered belongings, he then heard the doors closing behind him and realised that he had missed his train, and by the time he had turned back to the woman, she no longer needed his help. The man was at first irritated but then very grateful. I think Jane would like to know, and I can give you the name of the magazine and the page number of the story."_

"_That's... The chances of that happening are very slim, almost none..." Many emotions crossed the man's face, shocked, excited, and strangely enough to L, concern. _

"_I agree. That the strap would give way in that exact moment, not only saving Jane but an unknown man as well, is something that seems very... unlikely."_

"_Not only that but me sitting here, telling you that story, and you not only knowing about it in the first place, but then linking it with something you read in a magazine last week. L, listen to me, I haven't really spoken to you much about this, but I think you are old enough to understand fully." There was an intensity rarely seen from the man in his gaze as he said this, and he sat up straight. L knew that whatever would be said was going to be very important._

"_I know that you've never really been outside, but you have watched television. Have you noticed any differences between yourself and other children your age?"_

_L shifted slightly on his heels and averted his gaze, biting on his thumb. "They are strange. I... do not understand the children's shows, and the children are always loud, and messy, and they move for no reason. They can't write, they can't draw properly, and they can hardly speak. When they do speak they say such stupid things, and they only use a few numbers, not as many as I do. Are they all like that? Although, I have noticed a lot of stupid adults on those shows too."_

_The man's eyes danced with amusement. "I expected you would say something like that. To answer your question, no, not all children are like that. After all, there is you. You should know however, there really aren't very many children like you. Most children your age are the noisy kind, and because of that, you won't be going to school with the other children your age. You would be very bored, and to be very truthful with you, I don't think the other children would be very nice to you, seeing as you'd just constantly make them feel stupid without even trying. Your brain just happens to be wired up that way, and just like you can't understand their world, they can't understand yours. It takes them a good while longer to grow up. It doesn't make you any better or worse as a person, it just means that a normal school wouldn't help you at all. I have contacted an old friend of mine about something a bit more challenging for you, but he won't be in the country for another month at least, as he has business abroad that he must maintain. He helped me when I was younger, and I learned a lot from him. In fact I think he's rather excited to meet you."_

"_He's... coming here? To see me?" L was amazed, usually nobody visited. He couldn't help but feel excited. "I will say that going to school did worry me a bit."_

"_Well there's no need for you to worry, we will find the way that works best. I do need to tell you, that I told my friend about your rolls of paper, and I know that he would be very interested in reading some. He also sent me a book for you to read, I've had it for a little while but I've been meaning to talk to you about schooling for a while, so it has stayed on the shelves. He would like to know your thoughts on it."_

"_What is the book called?"_

"'_A Study in Scarlet'. It's about Sherlock Holmes, a detective. Judging by how you linked our lucky puzzle pieces just now, I think you will like it."_

"_Alright. Thank you."_

_There was a short silence where the man stared out of the window, thinking of the last time he'd spoken to his friend, but his thoughts were interrupted as L dashed over to his most recent roll, and started drawing circles, of all things._

"_What are you doing L?" he asked, knowing that the answer may take a while. Sure enough many circles and minutes later the response came._

"_I am going to draw pie charts of our stories and use different colours for different possibilities. The bigger the slice of pie, the more likely the possibility. That way I will know exactly how likely it all was." Here L paused and still in his crouch, turned to look at his father. "I do have a rather large problem. I don't think that using fractions would be a good idea. There is something else that fits but it would be faster if you told me." Of course L knew, but it would make his father feel even better if he pretended otherwise._

"_Aha! The easiest system to use would be percentages, much tidier than having fractions everywhere." _

Now L was filling rolls of paper with his pie charts, and his mind was creating the next pie chart before he'd finished colouring the previous. Reading 'A Study in Scarlet' had been a challenge in itself, made more difficult when L decided to draw pie charts, trying to solve the case alongside Sherlock Holmes.

He was right. His charts worked. Was it possible that with enough information, _everything_ could be written as numbers? His mind played a film of a faceless woman's bag falling to the ground. _Those other people though... the ones who got hurt. The chart was right for them... but then my charts say that the chances of an accident happening in the first place were less than one percent._

It was two weeks until his father's friend would be in the country, unless something urgent prevented him from coming. It was a Saturday morning. L's father had almost finished the latest project he'd been working on, and L was being given a lesson on his father's computer. Marie was in the kitchen. The bells of the nearby church started ringing. Everything was as it should be.

That was, until the unlocked back door of their shabby ground floor flat opened, and gunshots mixed with a woman's shrill screams rang through the flat.

L was roughly shoved under the desk by his father, hurried, whispered words ringing in his ears, along with his mother's screams and the bells of the church.

"No matter what you hear, no matter what happens to me, _don't make a sound!_"

This was the last time L saw him alive.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: This story is for fun, not for profit. I own nothing that didn't come from my own mind.

**Chapter 3**

"Isaac-Olivier Lawliet, Marishka Lawliet. Both shot dead in their home, no sign of forced entry, documents recovered from the premises confirm their ID."

"_Understood. Anything taken?"_

"Yes, it appears that the computer is the only thing missing, although there's something else Sarge."

"_You found a lead?"_

"Not as such. We have an unreliable witness. Young boy, roughly four years of age, no documents found regarding him but looking at the bodies I would say they were his parents. Hasn't spoken a word, and I'm not quite sure he's all there."

"_Understandable. I want him brought to headquarters. If he heard or saw anything of importance, we need to know. I'll have our kid friendly shrink brought in."_

"He's... going to need some clean clothes, and a shower. It's bad in there Sarge, real bad. A couple of the juniors from last year threw up. It definitely has the trademarks of being organised. From what the neighbours have told us, it was over in less than five minutes. They knew exactly why they were there, and what they were there for. There's blood and brains all up the walls, on the floor too of course, we've got forensics snapping away in there already. What's just downright creepy is that the kid looked around before we got there, and there are... footprints. Handprints too. That's something we don't get as well, they organised the raid, and just left the kid?"

"_It seems that the boy is essential in bringing these killers to justice. Hopefully, knowing that he'll be helping us to catch his parent's killers will encourage him to tell us all he knows."_

"Yes Sarge. Shall I send the boy on ahead with one of the juniors? It'll be a while until we get cleaned up here."

"_Yes. What is the boy's name?"_

"We don't know Sarge, there were no papers for him, and he won't speak. No pictures of him around either, in fact if it wasn't for the kid's clothes and a couple of toys in his room I wouldn't say a kid lived there."

"_Never mind. Pack him a bag, get him in a blanket on the back seat and he'll be sleeping before the car leaves the town. He's at that age. Hopefully he won't remember this in a few years time."_

"Hope so Sarge, this one's enough to give grown men the creeps. I think it's the kid's prints that are the worst."

"_We need as much information from the scene as possible. Look for disks, especially. Or anything that hints towards what the killers were looking for. It may be hidden."_

"Got it Sarge."

Gibson replaced the police radio when it became apparent that nothing more was to be said and stepped out of his car. Half of the officers there that day had children of their own. Smiling, happy children. Not like the child he would be returning to shortly. He'd rather die than see his own seven year old boy go through what this tiny something-year-old was going through. Of course, in that case, he would be dead, which would have caused the problem in the first place.

_Focus Gibson focus, save it for when you get home, now is not the time. Bloody hell. Yes, it's Bloody Hell in there, and I'm going back in._

Gibson glanced at the flat's living room window out of the corner of his eye, absentmindedly bringing out a packet of cigarettes and a Zippo. He inhaled slowly, and breathed out the smoke in a steady stream of hazy white, as he watched the puffs get carried by the wind, listening as leaves rattled past him, focussed on their mission to block the nearest drain.

Somewhere in his mind he registered that it was stupid to be afraid of a crime scene, the killers were long gone and there was nothing to be afraid of. Except for that creepy kid. It wouldn't be so bad if only the kid would scream, or shout, or fight; just something other than crouching underneath the desk, or in his room in a corner (He was picked up, rigid as a stone statue, refusing to relax in the slightest, rejecting the contact until he was put down again, and even then he did not relax for a long time), gazing blankly at goodness knows what, goodness knows where. He'd never come across a kid like him. The few children around his age he'd met in scenes anything like this had been mostly hysterical, desperately latching on to the first safe person they saw. One had to be coaxed out of her hiding spot; she had squeezed into a boiler cupboard, in the tiny space between the boiler jacket and the back wall, but as soon as the girl had seen that they were the police, and that they meant no harm, she had crawled out, and flung herself onto the nearest woman and cried her heart out. That's what kids were supposed to do; they weren't supposed to do nothing at all! It just wasn't natural.

Realising that allowing himself to be unsettled by a kid no older than four was rather stupid, Gibson gave himself a disgusted snarl before grinding the butt of his cigarette beneath his heel and making his way to the front door.

He was forcefully reminded just how cramped it was with everyone in there; men in suit jackets, men in white suits, uniformed police, the coroner's people... all tiptoeing around, trying to avoid stepping in the unavoidable. Pushing down the disgust, he dodged as best he could with his years of practice, and made his way to the kid's room, noticing this time that there seemed to be an unusually large number of rolls of what looked to be lining paper. Planning to decorate perhaps... but then who on earth would need this many rolls?

One of his juniors had volunteered to make sure the kid didn't leave any more foot or hand prints. It was simply protocol in this situation, however rare it may be. In situations like these, they get the kid bundled into their room or whichever room is cleanest, shut the door, and the kid gets a cop buddy for however long it takes to sort them out a place to go, and of course transportation.

He entered the room after giving a few quiet taps to alert the junior and hopefully not scare the kid too much – not that the kid seemed to be there the last time he saw him – to see pretty much the same scene as the last time he had been in here.

The kid was crouched in a corner with his hands resting on his knees, seemingly staring at nothing and everything at the same time. Gibson was just thankful that those eyes had not turned on him at any point, because he honestly didn't think he could hold out long enough to stare the kid down, and Gibson was a highly trained officer of the law with two decades of experience.

Well that would be Sarge's problem whenever the kid got there, and good luck to him.

The junior was sat on the kid's bed, and it was obvious by the slump of the guy's shoulders that nothing he'd said or done had gotten through to the kid. Gibson motioned for the other to move over to make room for him to sit, and tried for the direct approach.

"Hey, do you mind telling me your name so that I don't have to keep calling you 'kid'?"

No response, not a twitch. He waited a couple of minutes to make sure. Nothing.

"Right, well I suppose your name can wait. Here is what is going to happen to you. You're way too young to live by yourself, so you can't live here anymore. We will find you a place to stay."

Gibson swore he saw the kid's hands tighten their grip on his knees ever so slightly. Good. There's hope then... he's partially aware at least.

"Officer Steele here is going to give you a ride in his police car, and he's going to take you to London."

One of his elbows twitched slightly at 'London'. Good.

"You are going to London to meet a very important man. It is his job to find out what happened here, and to put the bad people who did this in jail, so that they don't hurt other people."

Nothing. The kids eyes were too dark, and his hair too long. The only things that gave him away were those twitches; otherwise he could have been a rather creepy looking doll. He looked five minutes away from haunting the nearest abandoned manor. Perhaps his place would be on the roof, amongst the gargoyles. Gibson found himself thinking that a pair of black wings would suit the child. Black hair that resembled a lion's mane, black holes for eyes, skin so pale that was almost white, and of course the fact that the kid was covered in dried blood.

No, not creepy in the slightest. Of course not, how could a kid that looks four be creepy?

"Right. We need to clean you up a bit, get some fresh clothes on you, and pack some of your things. Only things from this room though."

The three of them sat in silence, until the junior mumbled something about finding a bag or a suitcase, and left the room.

The door had barely finished closing when the kid jumped up and crossed the room to a set of drawers. He stood there looking at the second drawer down. Gibson was rather slow on the uptake, and it took a few fruitless questions before he noticed where the kid was looking.

"If you need help to open the drawer, then you should just ask," he tried, but as he'd thought, it didn't work. The kid just stood there, staring at the drawer and waiting.

Gibson sighed and opened the drawer, to find an assortment of plain long sleeved t-shirts in various colours.

"Right, I'm guessing your clothes are all in here. I'll get some out for you, since your hands are messy."

Gibson quickly piled the clothes on the bed, noticing that there were no socks or shoes in the room.

"Do you have socks and shoes?"

The kid turned away and shuffled back to his corner, hands on knees as he crouched and stared blankly once again. It was as if he had never moved. As it was he figured he'd have a hard time convincing the junior that the kid had moved at all. Great.

The junior, Steele, came back with a battered brown suitcase. Gibson nodded to him and began to pack the kid's clothes.

"Steele, could you clean him up a bit?"

"Yeah, the hallway to the bathroom is clear but..." Steele was clearly uncomfortable saying exactly what was on his mind, and the glance towards the kid confirmed the unspoken ending.

"I'm sure you'll find a way Steele, and the quicker the better, you have a long drive to London ahead of you. You know it still won't be fast enough according to Sarge. He'll assume that whoever's driving will be tearing it down the motorway, blues n twos screaming as the masses make way," he responded, packing trousers now.

"I've heard nothing's ever fast enough for him. I'll go run a quick bath for the little one."

After Steele left, it took all of two minutes to pack every item of clothing. There didn't seem to be many toys as he looked around, usually every kid had _something_ that they wanted to keep with them. He found himself trying to guess what this kid would bring, but nothing seemed right.

"Right, we've still got space in here so if there's anything you want to bring with you..." he trailed off as the kid hopped to his feet, and scrabbled under the bed, dragging a pile of... books? Picture books and dictionaries. Of course. Not only that, but the kid was dragging them out by barely pinching the corners of the stack with only the thumb and forefinger of each hand. If only his seven year old had the same respect for his books... but then this was this kid's parent's blood.

This tyke wasn't so bad really. He's had a big scare, and he's a bit odd, but he's a gentle soul. Gibson realised that yet again the kid had moved when it was only the two of them in the room, and sure enough, the kid went back to his corner, looking as if he'd never moved. Maybe the kid was secretly laughing at him, knowing that the others would never believe him if he told them he'd moved. He sighed as he packed the seven books, a dictionary and picture book for each of three languages, English, French, and Japanese, and 'A Study in Scarlet'. Go figure. _Well, thumbed, obviously second hand, but if it's what he wants... perhaps it was his fathers. _

_This... is bad. This is very bad. They... those... Why?_

He had heard a vehicle drive away at a speed that was too fast. _Sounded like a van. Like those white ones. Something was wrong with the engine noise, maybe something is broken -_

_Everything is broken; their insides are on the outside!_

_Things won't ever be the same –_

_Why did they shoot them? –_

_What code? - _

_The van headed towards the main road leading to –_

_Why did that man pretend...? - _

_Why did they take the computer? - _

_What if they can be fixed?_

He had padded around in his bare feet, stepping in the blood because his legs just weren't long enough to step over. He'd known Daddy was gone straight away, no noise from him, just a thud. It had shaken the floor and L would never forget it. He was right in guessing after all; his head was gone, they shot him in the head.

There was no coming back from that.

Maria – Mother – was in the kitchen, wheezing slowly, laid down on the floor. She wasn't awake. She would be gone soon too.

L had sat with her, had stroked her hair gently with the tips of his fingers, and had held her hand. He hadn't noticed the red round his feet, and when he shifted slightly a short time later - _NO!_

_NoNoNoNoNoNo!_

In the back of the police car L was still silently crouched, wrapped up in the thick blanket from his bed, showing no sign of his inner thoughts. The officer driving had given up trying to get him to either talk or go to sleep about fifty miles ago, not that L noticed. He noticed when they packed his clothes. He noticed packing his books. He noticed being washed by someone else for the first time in a long time, since he could do it himself, and the sea of red with bits floating was the last thing he remembered before finding himself outside.

He remembered everything up until he slipped on the floor, then there's a blank, _then I'm under the desk again and the police are talking about me, and I decide they're doing well enough without me, then I calculate the percentage probability of masked robbers entering through the back door (64% more probable than them entering through the front door), stealing a computer (breaking and entering increased the probability of stealing by roughly 92%), gunning down two adults and leaving me an orphan, all on a Saturday morning, before I've had my cake. No idea how I came to be in my room, then packing, -_

_Clothes – books – sea of red – blank – outside – police car. _

At least now he knew what times were missing, and that blood was a common factor. How annoying (frustrating, aggravating, irritating, distressing, disturbing).

The only visual evidence he had was of the one person who had kept him secret. It just wouldn't be _right_.

L brought himself back to reality and realised that this was the first time he could remember being in a car, and also this is the furthest he has ever been away from the home that wasn't home anymore. The urge to stare out of the window and soak up everything he could see was shadowed by the urge to retreat a little and work on some percentages for today.

Then he remembered that he was in this car, because the man trying to catch his parent's killers wanted to speak with him. The worst part being, he couldn't tell him what he knew.

Well... silence had worked out well for him until now. If he's lucky they might find someone to teach him sign language, it had fascinated him since he had heard of it. _In fact, I think it's 78% certain I will be learning sign language if I keep this up._

Another thought made itself known. His slice of cake, in fact, the _whole cake_ was probably still in the fridge back _there_. He wouldn't ever be going back, and his cake would never be eaten. Unless the police found it and decided not to let it go to waste, in which case he would rather not know seeing as he was relying on the police at the moment and didn't want to think too many negative thoughts about them. He wondered if there would be cake wherever they were going. In fact, they had better hope so. It had been a rough day.

Officer Steele kept his eyes on the road, avoiding looking into the rear view mirror, knowing he'd see those creepy blank eyes staring vacantly somewhere. Quite frankly he was amazed that the kid wasn't passed out on the back seat. The ride was silent the entire time, the older one afraid that the younger might actually say or do something. That would almost be worse than the silence. As for the other, it took him a split second to subconsciously note the driver's discomfort and to dismiss it as unimportant. Consciously, he was unaware.

Time crawled by for Officer Steele, as it inevitably does for those in uncomfortable situations, whereas the boy felt that the journey had barely begun before they were pulling into a car park filled with police vehicles.

Officer Steele grabbed a file from the passenger seat, got out of the car and haltingly approached the back door before fumbling with the door handle.

"I bet you won't be up to walking yet kid, guess I'll be carrying you," he mumbled almost to himself as he opened the door. He lifted L and fumbled slightly. "Sheesh kid, you weigh even less than I thought." He found it easier to talk to the kid now that the end was in sight. Also, it would have been strange to carry him without a word. He also had an excuse to not look down at him. Unfortunately for Steele, it seemed that once he'd started talking, for some reason he found it difficult to stop.

"Should manage you and your suitcase no problem, we'll get you up to see the Sarge you've heard about, and he'll sort you out from there. Well, even if you did feel up to walking, we never found any shoes or socks for you so I suppose I would be carrying you anyway. Don't worry too much about Sarge, he's a good man and he's good at what he does. Might seem a bit grumpy at first but then he solves mysteries like today's all the time."

He nodded a greeting to the receptionist, who tiredly informed him that Sarge was waiting, which looked to translate roughly to, 'For goodness sake get up there already, he's been phoning me every five minutes.'

Making his way through corridors that he'd only walked down a few times, and checking the signs to make sure we was going the right way, he carried on the one-sided conversation, suspecting that the kid didn't understand a word he said and that he was probably retarded even before today's events.

"Look kid if you're in there, I know you don't really want to talk to us, but we really want to find out who did this, so..." Steele trailed off and glanced down, almost dropping the kid when he saw those eyes looking at him as if to say 'so what?'

Not retarded then. If anything that one glimpse told him the kid was far from it.

He definitely wasn't what a person would class as 'normal'.

It was the eyes that did it. Imagine any colour of eyes except black, and he'd be a really cute kid. A smile or two wouldn't be amiss either, but admittedly he would be a lot more concerned if he'd seen one today. It was just a feeling he had that the kid didn't smile much.

They say that the eyes are the window to the soul, and the man named Steele would never admit to anyone or anything, that he was severely spooked when he had looked into the eyes of a kid that couldn't be more than four years old, and had seen _nothing._

The only thing he had seen was a tiny reflection of himself in each eye.

What almost terrified him was the 'so what?' glance. It was simply _loaded._ With one glance he'd felt as if the boy had x-rayed him and found him _lacking, inferior _even_, _and the terrifying thing about this was that on some level, he believed it.

The only other people he'd met in his life who had made him feel remotely the same way were his parents and the man whose door he was about to knock on, yet he, Officer Steele, felt intimidated by a small child who refused to uncurl himself out of his ball – even in the bath! What's more, the kid hadn't even said a word.

_A man can't help his instincts you know!_

He'd heard criminals say that phrase, or variations of it many times in his short career, sometimes said with a manic lecherous grin, sometimes desperately. Logically it is a plausible excuse; we're all told at some point to trust our instincts, and to have faith in ourselves. Morally he could never understand how instincts could override all logic and reason, driving people to do despicable things to each other.

Logic and reason both drowned out the instincts telling him to drop the kid and run far, far away, and he thought that perhaps he was gaining some insight.


End file.
